


is it in my head or in my heart?

by AlasPoorAndy



Category: The Who
Genre: Angst, Bandom - Freeform, Drinking to Cope, Gay, Longing, Love, Lust, M/M, POV, Poger, Rock and Roll, Romance, Slow Burn, The Who - Freeform, abuse mention, john entwistle - Freeform, keith moon - Freeform, m/m - Freeform, pete townshend - Freeform, roger daltrey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlasPoorAndy/pseuds/AlasPoorAndy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Townshend looks at his life, his career, his past, his future, and his love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is it in my head or in my heart?

**Author's Note:**

> my first piece for AO3. feel free to share this if you like it, this fandom only has a finite selection of fan fic! i have more i'm slowly going to post so please stay tuned. xx
> 
> a drabble about how pete townshend sees the world.

****

Even though he had a tormented mind that steadily ate away at his conscience and sanity, he could play it off as something sexy and mysterious, at least.

It wasn’t hard, Pete was simply in the right profession at the right time. Other rock stars looked moody and broody on stage and spewed a bunch of metaphors onstage and the audience would practically shit themselves with delight. He did consider the appeal; having a tall, dark and brooding figure onstage, a puzzling configuration of tragedy and mystery that somehow translated into something alluring to the audience watching the performance. What the screaming fans didn’t see, however, was the lack of sleep, the malnutrition, the sinking self-esteem, the health problems, the disgusting drug addictions and subsequent withdrawals, right before they walked onstage to be suave and charming and intriguing all thanks to that mysterious allure. And when they ended up killing themselves or slumping over in an empty trap house with a needle still in their arm, they were suddenly martyrs to a doomed society, a heroic exploration in the name of art and beauty. 

The only thing distinguishing the tragic rock god and a deadbeat homeless bloke was the music, of course.

Pete thankfully found himself on the side of the line that produced what was considered good music. He already thought of himself pretty poorly (low self-worth: one tick off of the checklist) and he didn’t think his music was actually any good unless people told him so. He just sat down every night and blindly composed whatever ideas he had milling about, or whatever blackened memory resurfaced after a night of heavy drinking (unhealed wounds from a traumatic childhood: another tick) and waited anxiously for approval. His manager usually liked the stuff he produced, often kindly tweaking it or working through ideas with him. The other guys adored his music most of the time, and responded enthusiastically, not knowing what a huge relief he felt every single time he gained their approval (overwhelming desire for approval: tick). In return, his other band members grew a fond admiration for him as he orchestrated their music and lyrics into one of his ambitious projects. The fans devoured it. Whatever Pete was doing when he poured his heart out, it sure was working.

Was he the tragic rock god figure? Surely he possessed some qualities that put him up for consideration. He was taller than average, skinny, and had dark hair—already a winner in some eyes. He looked broody because his face was sullen and worn most of the time. He was known to drink a lot, but also resorted to drugs sometimes in absolute privacy without his other band members knowing. But tragic? Never. Of course he had a shitty upbringing and lots of traumatizing experiences that still fuck with his mind today, yet he vowed never to live with that as a weakness. He and the band had the reputation of being rough, working class kids from the English suburbs, who were dirty and loved to get rowdy, but still had a capacity for love and wonder that didn’t hide under their tough expression. Fucking right, they’d perform a love ballad on electric guitars, then smash their kits and go get piss drunk after the show and trash the hotel room. That was what made them who they were. They truly represented the roughened people of their post-war time.

*

A lot of things mattered to Pete. A lot of things bothered him and made him absolutely livid. Serious stuff, like injustice and abuse and misrepresentation. After all the shit he had lived through before the band, other things just didn’t matter at all in the grand scheme. Money nearly ruined his family, therefore he did not care about it. He did not value prestige, nor clothes or appearance like he used to (although it still was mandatory for being a public figure, he just let other people fuss over his outfits). Getting a simpleton wife and settling down and having kids wasn’t a priority even though that was what his life was expected to build towards. After being subjected to groping and unwarranted touching and fondling in his childhood and adolescence, he simply didn’t value his body or share it sparingly. Pete’s priorities were pleasure. He would do whatever he needed on the outside to feel satisfied on the inside. For example: inhaling whatever substance that would soothe the chainsaw roaring in his mind. Drinking anything available that would blur out the rest of the world and simplify his thoughts. Eating disgusting and greasy food three times a day and chain smoking cigarettes that satisfied his palate. Playing guitar until his fingers literally bled for his screaming fans. Locking himself in a dirty bathroom stall behind a shady pub and letting two strangers shove their cocks in whatever part of him that would stretch wide enough, because it felt good and quenched a nagging urge. With a simple ritual like that, Pete could find solace for a day or two and focus on honing his craft and producing good quality art. He truly did live a luxurious and rewarding life.

*

Roger was someone who he didn’t know he needed in his life so badly.

Every moment that they were in the same vicinity together, Pete had a tendency to cast an intense gaze on the other man. To him it was simply observation in awe and admiration, to others it could come across as a predatory look. He did get cut some slack because the dark bags under his eyes usually drew some sympathy—maybe he wasn’t staring so hard, he was so tired it just looked intense. 

But Pete couldn’t believe, after all these years, that he had somehow found the perfect spiritual balance in a personal and professional relationship.

It was a warm autumn day and they were in a stuffy office, being interviewed by some off-beat magazine. Pete couldn’t help but look at Roger the whole time, observe him, devour him. The blond happily delivered all the charm on behalf of the whole band that day—John was still hungover but trying his best to concentrate, Keith was on a cocktail of drugs, and Pete was battling a heavy case of lust. Roger chatted, his bright eyes crinkling with his constant smiling. His curls bounced with every enthusiastic nod or friendly laugh in his sing-song voice. Pete clenched and unclenched his fists as the minutes dragged by, his focus tuning in and out of the questions they had already answered one hundred times before in the same few months since starting their newest album. 

Roger was the perfect man to have, interpret that as you will. Yes, they were best friends and business partners and all that. But in another sense, Pete valued him as an artistic pimp values his artistic whore. There is a logical reasoning to this thought process, of course. It was simply because Pete slaved for weeks or months over a purely autobiographical song, more real and truthful than if you had ripped open his beating heart to see what was actually inside. He delivered the papers to the band and the producers. They rehearsed the content he fed to them. They recorded. Pete stood behind the technical crew in the recording studio with his arms folded stiffly, watching through the glass as Roger held the papers with his heart and soul scrawled over them, and sang Pete’s words as though they were gospel and he were the heavenly muse to deliver the message. Pete was weakened yet fuelled by this process, but had a hard time figuring out why. 

At the end of the session, Roger would come out again, blue eyes crinkled by the same crooked smile that he gave everyone, and the intense warmth and love he radiated made Pete falter. Roger would clap him on the shoulder, and nearly knock him down with a simple, “This is another great one, Pete. Can’t wait to hear the final cut!”

Pete felt so strongly towards him, he thought it could only be born of hatred.

But he waited for that habitual praise at the end of every session, and then he could finally go home to write.

*

Onstage, this directly fuelled his energy. 

It was satisfying knowing the band played the music he created and perfected, and the fans remembered the guitar licks and rhythms born from his own mind. 

It was downright pleasurable watching Roger sing Pete’s own work up to the heavens. Pete could feed all his haunting, tormenting thoughts in a direct stream to Roger, and Roger would translate that and sing a tale of harrowing hardship, seemingly endless sorrow, unfaltering love and devotion, all with an edge of his signature optimism, like he was the sunlight peeking through the dark cloudiness of Pete’s greying mind.

*

He had slipped some lyrics past Roger, testing to see if somehow the other man could sense that they were written about him. Roger was always too humble to ever consider they were anything but love songs for someone generic and fictional. Instead, the singer enchanted them all in the recording studio, singing Pete’s anonymous love letters so achingly, and leaving each man to long for the one they loved. 

“I'd pay any price just to win you, surrender my good life for bad…”

*

“Pete, come on, mate,” Roger pleaded gently on one of those nights where the light went out in the dark tunnel in Pete’s mind. Pete remembered the bottle of whiskey accidentally left behind by a visitor, now staining the front of his shirt and scorching the back of his throat. He remembered a phone ringing, and Pete trying to talk amidst the balls of cotton pouring out of his mouth and the hurricane in his mind. He remembered thinking that burning his stupid, awful ideas on paper with a box of fancy matches would make him feel better. He burnt four of his fingertips before someone came into his house and blew out the burning paper and gently removed the bottle of whiskey. 

“There, there, you loon. Drink some water. Hey, no need to do that. I didn’t even get to read it first.” Oh, that voice. Pete loved that voice more than anything he could think of in that moment. He needed that voice. 

Pete couldn’t even keep his head straight on his neck. It flopped forward and to the side. Pete was caged in by the arms of his dining room chair, otherwise he’d completely fall over. He needed to tell Roger something, it was so dire, so important. He grabbed Roger’s arm and pulled him down, all the way until the blond man was on his knees, looking up at Pete.

“What is it? Are you okay? Pete?”

Pete placed a hand at the back of Roger’s head and guided it down to his lap. He was surprised at the easy willingness.

As instructed, Roger gently lay his cheek against Pete’s thigh. Pete stroked the thick mass of blond curls. His breathing fell back to normal, and he relaxed. He soothingly pet the man’s warm head, plucking at each soft curl. Roger hummed. Pete sighed.

*

Above them, the audience was already chanting their names, begging them to come out. The band waited backstage in the green room, waiting for one last equipment check before they could make their appearance and start the show. Between John, Keith and Pete, they shared one last cigarette and passed a lukewarm beer amongst themselves. Pete checked over his shoulder, quickly locating Roger off in his own world; he was humming scales to keep his voice warmed up, stretching his arms one last time, bouncing back and forth on each foot, always fidgeting, lost in thoughts about god knows what. Roger was pure. Pete knew with an aching realization that the man was pure, perfect although imperfect in areas that were irrelevant. He was perfect for the band, for this city, for this career, for Pete. All Pete wanted was for a share of that enlightenment, that beauty, that mind that seemed to be truly at peace and far from the dark torment of Pete’s own. He was close but never close enough, always wanting more of Roger, and he could never truly stop until he had devoured everything Roger had to offer. Pete felt overwhelmed with greed. He couldn’t resist any longer. A stage manager would come any minute now and tell them to take their places onstage. The four of them would go their separate ways, and join together again in harmony once the first note was played in front of the expecting crowd. He would share his soul with Roger but never be so far from him at the same time.

Pete reached out, placing a hand on Roger’s shoulder blade. He was already warm under a thin cotton shirt, inviting him in closer. He longed to touch skin. The other man was startled, snapped from idle reverie. He turned suddenly but smiled at Pete nonetheless. 

“Hey, good luck out there, mate! Just keep channeling whatever you had last night and you’ll be golden,” Roger enthused warmly. 

“Thanks, you as well,” Pete responded, struggling to keep from overflowing.

The stage manager appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “We’re all set. Places, everyone.”

****


End file.
